Askew
by greyve
Summary: He really doesn't mean anything to him. CM Punk/Curtis Axel.


In hindsight, he doesn't even remember how it begins.

They're in a room with a couch and some tables after the show, and he just won't stop egging him on and mocking him. No, he's never taken him seriously and yes, he loves reminding him of that. To him, he's just Paul's shoddy substitute of him that pales even compared to Ryback, a slightly less shoddy substitute.

He's been reminding him of that this entire night.

Curtis doesn't have quick enough wit to defend against a verbal barrage; they both know that. They're both surprised he's still here, really.

"You're going to say something?" All bemused, he leans in. "C'mon, _Axel_. Spit it out."

"You're an asshole."

"No," he shakes his head, "that's not it. I thought I almost saw you think."

_You're a dumb kid kicking down sandcastles. You're overrated. You're nuttier than your girlfriend, and it's in her pseudonym._ _He's right, you are a bully.__ You threw something away, and he'll never forgive you or take you back._

"You," he starts and then he doesn't go on, and when that happens he's interrupted anyway.

A press of Punk's lips to his, closed but close nonetheless.

Curtis freezes like a mannequin.

He's confused. Jesus, so confused, can't tell if this is a joke or a trick or a way to lure him in and humiliate him and entrap him, but he doesn't move away – maybe it's just seething rage, because his lips open but his teeth don't, just clench and bare like an animal. And Punk isn't even phased, he just barks a laugh and moves from lips-to-teeth to teeth-to-teeth, snarling too. If that's mockery or _what_, Curtis doesn't know.

At this moment, this _living second_, Curtis doesn't know anything. It's surreal, entirely impossible: they're frozen with nothing constraining them, bodies even slightly separate. But foreheads pressing, noses aligned. Teeth to teeth.

Teeth to teeth. He moves his head back, and slams into Punk's. The man collapses, The End, fireworks and a parade. He wins, he's crowned best in the world. Happy ending.

Teeth to teeth, _this is what actually happens_: He moves his head back, and it's caught with a thrown 's sent reeling, even though he shouldn't. He's still so shocked, and Punk just stands there like he's. _God_, or a king, someone who's totally in control. The pantomime snarl is now a wide smile, but he's breathing so hard and his fists are clenched hard by his sides. He's just watching, grinning, breathing like he's climbed a mountain.

Curtis manages to steady himself and gain some control back, but only just. "You're – _you _–"

Punk is still silent, wracked with breath. Grinning inanely.

"— _playing_ with me?" he finishes, and rubs the stinging point of his cheek, to soothe it; also, maybe, to soothe his mind.

His head tilts, and his eyes (now playful) say _yes_. He says, "No." He licks his lips, stalling at his lip ring. "Come here."

"Jesus, _no_."

"Are you fucking stupid?" he asks, and pauses. "Aah. Just come over here, you big friggin' oaf."

There's no reason for him to stay here, in this room. "I'm not moving," he says. It seems like a fair compromise.

The force of Punk's eyeroll is enough to set the world spinning on its axis. Regardless, he's the one taking the steps, untheatrical and quick, and soon his hand is on Curtis' chest. The look he adopts is suddenly grave, and he looks straight into the other man's eyes.

And asks, with all seriousness, "Do you want me to give you a handy?"

"What?"

"Uh." The facade of somberness is broken. He gestures, a little wildly. "A _handjob_. You're so great at playing knuckle-dragging lackey — seriously, great job, A+ in _that_ role — and I bet nobody's ever thrown you a bone before, right?

"Thrown me a bone," he says flatly, because that's obviously what the first question on his mind should be in this situation.

"You just keep following people around like a lost puppy. It's embarrassing." He pushes a palm into Curtis' chest, leaves it there. "And, hey. Newsflash! Even the _walrus_ ain't gonna touch you."

_That _little jab. It's the one that causes that fuels that painful swell in his chest, mortification clawing up his legs, the back of his throat. It's awful enough to make him turn to leave, but Punks' hand wraps around his wrist and pulls him back in. The amusement is still etched in his face through the wrinkles around his eyes, and there's anger and a bit of disgust in his furrowed brow.

There's also now a touch of gentleness to his features, and that hand on his wrist is trembling. Curtis (almost) thinks the man sounds earnest when he adds, quietly: "Look, I know you think I'm fucking with you. But I'm really not."

Finally wrenching his wrist away from Punk's grip, Curtis just gapes at him. He doesn't stumble away with wounded pride or knock Punk down to save it, even though he should. Even though he shouldn't ask, "Why are you doing this?" and realizes that he just did.

The only answer he gets is a scoff, and Punk shuffles closer. They're practically touching chests, and their faces are so close that he can feel his breath on his face. The discomfort of the proximity is almost intolerable to Curtis, takes all his will to plant his feet to the tile floor and not up and flee.

Punk is obviously thriving. Flicks his gaze eyes from Curtis' scalp, drags it slow down to his feet. He's definitely not looking at his _face_ when he pushes, "Yes, or no?" and, after a tense moment, "Just give me something, man. Don't be a little bitch."

Curtis' jaw clenches hard, visibly shifts underneath his skin. The sheer cumulative sensation of unfettered loathing, embarrassment and disbelief grabs at the walls of his throat and pulls at something so fundamentally deep in him. Punk, for all his "realness", has always been the master of pulling at people's strings. His strings.

It's just so physically impossible for him to say yes, so he substitutes it with a nod.

If there's any change in that deranged, vague expression that Punk has, he doesn't see it — in a second, the man's shoulders are hunched so his face is hiding in the center of Curtis' chest, and he's shoving them both into the nearest wall.

Curtis lets him reach a hand down and fumble to get past his trunks and undertrunks, lets him wrap a hand around his dick, lets him stubbornly stroke it into hardness. _Lets_ him, as if he didn't absolutely just consent to whatever this is right now, even though he's not attracted to him and whatever sense of pleasure he's getting from this is fleeting in comparison to the held inhale hammering about his lungs.

He's not stupid, no matter what Punk thinks. This isn't about him, it's never been about him, or what he's feeling. It's why he feels so lost that he can barely drag up a moan at the occasional pump and twist of his cock when the other guy is panting hard, sweating a storm against him and he's not even touching him. It's fucking _Punk_, monopolizing everything, taking everything. Curtis might as well not exist._  
_

"Get off of me," he murmurs. Dragging his face off and away from his chest, tilting it upward, Punk looks so damn _wet_, hair and sideburns utterly soaked black with sweat. And he's flushed, too, tenfold in comparison to Curtis. That looks he shoots is half inquiring, half sardonic and all impulsive, still somehow separate from the hand that's still slowly tugging at his dick. "I said," he starts, starting to twist away, "stop."

Punk's hand stills at the exact same moment as his eyes widen and his jaw drops. "You're not serious," he says, looks even more confused and nearly crestfallen when Curtis straightens up and stares daggers. "I'm giving you what you _need_, for _free._" Curtis isn't a a mind reader (far from it), but he swears he's pulling his hand off his dick with a sigh and staggering back because it must be the end of the fucking world whenever CM Punk gets a 'no.'

It's the heavy air of devastation that enables Curtis to break that maddening eye contact when he really couldn't, look down to tuck his already softening dick in back in his trunks, gain a bit of resolve back. Eyes locked towards the ground, he closes his eyes.

There's nothing in him that wants to process what happened, or what's happening, so he doesn't.

The sound of footsteps, somebody leaves.


End file.
